


Thippity-Thump

by LittleGreenPlasticSoldier



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hurt Sam Winchester, Sexual Content, Smut, Swearing, Vampires, Zodiac sign: Aries, biokinesis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-06-04 10:59:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6655285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier/pseuds/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes your special ability can be extremely useful, say as a hunter, or a lover.  Sometimes it’s completely useless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thippity-Thump

You stumble after the swing of your arm, almost falling, as the last vampire drops.  You pull up quick, almost sure you heard something else too.  A door? Shoes on concrete? There’s another sound, from the rear of the small barn, so you turn and dash for the front, hiding behind a stable partition to see if you’re right.

Nothing, for long seconds.  You don’t move, don’t get comfortable, let your machete drip.  You see darkness moving in the shadows, human shapes, then shoes, then the shine of a cheekbone and nose, an angled arm.  Another figure comes up behind, swings to the other side of the cover.  They can see from there that none of the bodies are moving.  Slowly they creep out, the second guy coming forward.  He’s tall - shaggy hair, jacket over layers, machete of his own - and leans down to pluck one of the darts from a body.  He gazes over the other five strewn around the room and backhands the first guy on the shoulder, shows him what he’s found.

And that first guy…  Christ.  For all the potential of your unusual skill it’s got nothing on the natural, sun-driven thrill of attraction.  Like a party popper in your brain, the streams of excitement flutter through you.  He’s broad and strong, a shapley set of thighs in those jeans, and when his profile is revealed you can tell, even with one eye, he’s a handsome man, about your age too.  You wonder if you’ll ever be skilled enough to make someone feel the way you do right now.

Logic says there’s a chance they’re Sam and Dean Winchester, but they’re certainly not vampires.  Either way, there’s no need for you to stay.

Slowly you back up and pad your way out of the barn, creeping out the open door, crouching and moving to the side of the driveway to get cover in the birch woods.  The shadow of the earth has dropped away and evening is settling in.

“Hands up” It’s a gruff voice from behind you, and you assume there’s a gun involved.  You raise your arms, the light not even strong enough to reflect off your wet weapon, and wait for him to come forward.

“Turn around.”

His face is obscured by the handgun, and behind him, to the side, the taller guy approaches just as carefully.  He clicks on a flashlight and points it near your feet, letting the reflections and spill illuminate faces and hands.  You wait for them to figure it all out so you can be on your way.

“All that you?” The shooter lowers his weapon a few inches, revealing the pretty face.

_Fuck it.  Yeah that’s gotta be Dean Winchester._

_Well, it was good while it lasted._

“Is this dead-man's’ blood?” the other asks, who must be Sam.  “She’s dropped them all and come in swingin’” he figures, and Dean glances to the side at his words.  He’s hesitant to disarm.  You can be patient if it’s fruitful.

“You do all those yourself?” he asks again, a step towards you.  Two more yards and you’ll be backing up.  You steal a few seconds to make up your mind, answers jostling. “You don’t start talkin’ I’m gonna assume you’re a threat.”

 _What for, you drama queen?_ Your hands are still up, and you haven’t budged a smidge.  “Y/N,” you say.

“Y/N what?”

You glance at Sam and choose caution.  “Just Y/N.”

“What, like Madonna?”

“Or Jesus.”  He’s come close enough and you begin to retreat.  “I’m a hunter.  You can take a breath.”

Sam’s peering at you now and says “A last name would help with the trust, you know.”

“You don’t need to trust me.  The nest is done, I’m done.  That’s it.”  You’re the one who did the vampires for crap’s sake; screw ‘em if they wanna piss about with name tags.  You drop your arms, wipe your blade on your leg and slide it back into its thigh casing.

Dean’s close enough now that is systems are within your range and you hear his pulse trip quicker, feel him salivate a little as you zip the last inches of your jacket and turn to go.  You’ve been practising at detecting facial muscles and which way they pull, but you’re still not confident you can read his expression while your back is turned.

“Hey, seriously?  That’s it?” he asks.  “You do in half a dozen vampires by yourself and you’re gonna play all secret agent on us?”

“Trust me Dean,” you tell him, a quick turn before you go, “if I’ve ever had enough of this life and start looking to wrap it up, first thing I’ll do is tell the Winchesters my name.” 

* * *

You drive _away_ , skipping the local town and heading back towards the one you came from to find the biggest bar on the brightest street.  Just one drink, to start with.  Just a comforter to help you settle your thoughts about that encounter. Every legend about Dean’s handsome looks was confirmed, and then some.  You’re glad you didn’t meet them when you were younger, when Dean was _making_ those legends and you weren’t quite so sure of your character.  Caught on the wrong day, you would’ve chased him anywhere, pumped a little blood to his dick every time your elbows bumped, hoping it would give him ideas.  You frown at yourself, scolding away manipulative thoughts.  Such antics would never have worked out well.

You spy a cocky glance flashing your way from down the bar.  He’s not bad.  Not Dean.  But he’s got a nice form, alright face. You wonder if you can change his eye colour to green.

You look long enough to decide for yourself, which encourages him, and in that time you know you’ll be letting your ethics guide slip between the seats tonight.

From the first introduction, you manage him. It’s not just your lies and flirtations, it’s controlling his pulse, issuing hormones on cue, and dilating pupils even if it’s one at a time after your third drink ( _wwwwoops_ ).  You let him kiss you, get all the hair on his neck to up and salute, watch him grin and shiver all over, and think maybe you should ease off the control a little.  

But so there’s easing off, and then there’s being sensible.  The guy’s way too excited, tripping all over everything when you suggest you get a room at a motel.  Even when you explain “Because I _need_ somewhere to stay tonight; you’ll be leaving,” he’s a chirpy “Yeah, sure, yeah, quick cuddle and I’m off!”  Uuuuhh work.  In fact, you’re struggling to remember that last guy who didn’t earn some intervention.

He’s not bad. He’s actually not bad, and he’s a nice guy.  He can kiss alright and listens when you ask him to not rub you there, and push a little more here.  He says nice things and tells you when it feels good. You feel a little shitty for getting all the lights off.  You don’t feel shitty at all for imagining they’re Dean’s neck and shoulders.  And you don’t feel shitty when, in the throes of it, when he’s leaning over you and moving his hips like he’s dipping his dick in gold, you don’t feel shitty when you gently pinch the vas deferens and push the blood a little tighter because he gasps and coughs his moan like your pussy has a tongue.  You hook your ankles behind him, get his pelvic bone to hit that spot with enough beats to stoke you ready, then pull his thighs for the tilt and cry _“There!”_

“Uh, fuck! Sweetheart!” he moans.  Did you make him say that too?  Can you? When you’re like this?  Everything wired?  And switched on? It’s good, this spot, it’s good, thick, hard, good, yes, better, _fuck!_   “Uuh!” you snap, burst, pull tight as you can around him, and he yelps, short moans rising because he isn’t coming just yet, not like he thought he would, it’s getting better, hotter, better than ever, and you’re ready for the drop, so you let go and push a muscle into his prostate, and again-  “Ya _FUCK!”_ his voice breaks, hips d-double, d-double, _push…_

You’ve both moved up the bed, breathing like a storm, and you look over his crumpled shoulders in the dappled grey.  He might be crying.   _Tear ducts,_ your brain offers, but you don’t care.  Let him cry if he wants.

“Oh, my god, _Laura_ ,” he heaves.  You puff and squint, thinking _Crap, he’s remembered my fake name.  Well done… Jake?_ Then he collects your head and starts making out with you, overwhelmed with affection. “M’god,” he mumbles, “I was really good that time.”

He’s probably a really nice guy.

* * *

“Uuuuugh Mother. Fucker.”

“They’re your best bet, Y/N,” Garth confirms.  “Two hours away, best I know.  And they’re good.”

“I thought they were wrapped up in this Mrs Amara the Darkness drama.”

“Yyyyeah, maybe don’t say her name out loud? They are taking other jobs.  She’s not a full-time thing I guess.  They really are the best, Y/N,” he assures, this close to gushing.

“Yeah, I know.  I just don’t expect Dean to take orders.  Gimme the number.  I’ll figure it out.”

Dean answers with suspicion and backs off when you drop Garth’s name. You explain the deal, trying to fill the call with your voice, not his.  You recite the coordinates and he confirms the 2-hour wait. “We’ve met, by the way,” you think to add.

”Oh yeah? When was that?”

“Not long back. I used dead man’s blood in some tranquillisers?”

“…Oh yeah… Madonna.”

“I really do prefer Jesus, to be honest.”

* * *

Two hours later, you’re still the only one on site and you’re at risk of running your phone flat from checking for messages.  Nothing.  Another thirty minutes and you hear what you assume is their car, then see them swing into the open gateway and park by yours, some distance behind you. When the doors slam closed you wave your phone at them, mildly impressed that Sam knows you’ll hear him across the still air when he says your name.  You wait for them to collect their things, and chew on your temper.

There is something, sweet Jesus on a dollar, there is something about that form sauntering across the bowing brown grass, hips going doll _op_ , doll _op_ with the footfall and knee-ease, machete in hand, that sequence _moves_ things in you. You’ve never been that good to controlling your own juices.

You’re kneeling in the dirt, and they squat beside you to look down the sparsely wooded hill.  The nest is in a solitary house by a broken back road.  It’s a rickety dump, with three cars out the front.

“So, it’s eight vamps, yeah?” Dean peers. “Me through the back, you two in the front, badabing badabo-”

“ _Ten_ vampires,” you correct him.  

Dean’s heart rate jumps, chemistry shifting slightly, and you take the time to focus in on the muscle, pull the pump back to around 75 bpm.  “ _Ten?_  Since when?”

“Since you took an extra fuckin’ half hour to get here, with no reply or text, the situation’s changed.  It’s ten plus a living victim.  Not to mention how damn vulnerable you left me, loitering around, waiting to see if I get got while you take your damn time.”

His sweat changes, blooms a little, and you feel a slight blush in his neck. And then you’re pretty sure you detect a wave of testosterone in response to your alpha-female style, something you’d normally pinch down on quick smart if it wasn’t so helpful to have in a hunt.   _Goddammit_.

“The arrivals might’ve come upon us if we’d been on time,” Sam offers.

“Not the point Sam.”

Dean’s regretful and gruff.  “Okay, the traffic was pretty bad.  I’ll text next time-”

Your glare breaks with the slightest eyeroll, and both of them know you’re not planning on a next time.  They look at each other, affronted.

“You two are going in the front, I’ll go in the back and get the victim clear under your distraction- _hey!_ Are you listening?”

“Yeah, we’re in the front,” Sam repeats, nodding while he refocuses, something critical going through his mind.  

“Our greatest weakness is the approach,” you continue, talking to Sam because he’s listening quite closely now.  “Down a hill, crunchy debris, poor cover,” you kneel tall and point to the back windows.  “If we go diagonally, keep the floor of the kitchen in view till the water tank, and come down on that side, we should avoid being spotted.  You guys creep up the side from there.”

Sam’s eyebrows pop _Yeah okay_ and you watch him think. A few seconds pass.  “Sounds good.”

“The victim’s a guy, ‘bout Dean’s height, blonde and heavy set.  Don’t kill that one.”  That’s your last instruction.

“Hey, Y/N,” Dean says, “I’m sorry we didn’t keep you up to date with an ETA.  Sam slept and I just kept driving. We’ll be on top of it next time.”

You chew a lip and try to bury the hatchet, at least for now.  You’re still managing his system while he’s this close; he’s a big guy and coursing with activity, so it’s taking a fair bit of focus.  “That’s okay,” you say, and Dean can’t tell if you mean _You’re forgiven_ or _Don’t offer._

As you begin the descent you refocus your thoughts on yourself, let Dean flow however he will.  They follow you and you seem to make it to the rear wall undetected.  Before they skulk away Dean grabs your wrist. “Hey, listen for the door.  We’re usually pretty quiet on first entry.  Be careful.”

You look at him, him and those goddamn eyelashes, remembering you’ve got work with him.  “Yeah, you too,” you say, and let your expression soften a little.

Dean smirks half way and winks before he dashes off.  You roll your eyes at no one.   _Frikken, give the man an inch…_

The boys are quiet, but no one else is, so you’re in the back door as soon as you please.  You take two down, bumping into furniture and cupboards, all under the trembling gaze of the captive.  He’s safe enough, once they’re down, but you still take the time to reach him, put a hand to his chest and slow his system, save a bit of sweat, and draw out a little oxytocin so he’ll believe you a bit better when you say “You’re okay, you’re safe.  You’re safe here and I’ll be back in two shakes.”

At the entrance to the hallway, another appears, panicked and rattled and it’s easy to take him out.  The one behind him is more challenging, and in the close quarters of the corridor there’s a moment where he gets a hold, bares the pointy pearlers with an eye on your flesh, and you clench your jaw and will them back into his goddamned head.  He wails at the pain and in his surprise, you push him back and make short work of it, getting a clear swing then and there.  

You head up the hallway and see two bodies felled by the front door, then find Sam struggling in a room on the left.  He has one down and one to go.  Through the door on your right, you can see the dining room and into the lounge where Dean’s got two dodging and taking turns.  They’re all upright though and Sam’s sprawled on the ground, so you dive in there, just as you hear him cry out something urgent.  You grab the head of hair wrestling over him and yank it back to sit her upright and swipe, clean through.  You toss the head away, shove the body free, and find Sam bloodied below you.  He’s got his hand pressed to his throat, pale face strained and surprised, scared, staring at the ceiling as he feels blood push between his fingers.

“Fuck! Sam!” you gasp and try to move his hand.  

You kneel over him, knees by his ribs, and try to coax away his hold.  “Let me, Sam, s’ok, just let me-”

“N-h, no, there’s-”

“S’not that bad, just gimme a look,” you promise and pull on his wrist.

It is that bad.  A 2-inch cut, right over the jugular, blood running with rhythm.  You thank God it’s not a bite then let a long breath out your nose to steady yourself and shut out the sound of Dean fighting where you can’t reach him.  This you can do.  This is what you should do now.

You place one hand on Sam’s chest to synchronise your hearts and cup your other hand over the wound, press the palm down tight to get some depth, feel the pulse, feel the little lives that have been torn apart, and send in tendrils of energy to pull them together.  Your eyes slip shut, even as Sam watches and wonders if you really are that warm, if you’re praying, and feels a tingle of… _health_ needle into the pain.  It’s hot, starts stinging like sour candy, but he leans into it.  You tug on the particles, reach a bit deeper to pull the vein, ease the elasticity, remind it of where it should be, and start to knit the edges together.  The heat pulls across your chest, up from your solar plexus and trickles, itchy-sweet, like an electric vine down your arm bones.  It thrums fast, warm and golden, the throb spitting through the pathways when you push it double-time, make control flow from your hand to his body, and heal.

Sam stays still and stares.  His knuckles lay lax on the wood and he watches you do something to him.  Some time has passed since he didn’t think you could help him, and now he’s waiting faithfully, without having had a thought between.

Seconds further and your breath breaks across your lips, a slight _uh, hmm,_ before you open your eyes and look at what’s changed.  Easing the heat, you pull back and draw your hand over the mark, wipe away the blood.  With the pad of your index finger you lick away the red scar till it’s barely visible, and plan to have a think at that later on.

“Y/N!” Dean’s voice muffles through and you look at Sam stare at you.  It’s not fear you feel, but it’s not pride either.  “ **SAM!** ”

 _“Dean!”_ you gasp, pushing off Sam and yanking his shirt all in one move.  Your machete is back in your hand before you’ve thought of it and both of you run toward Dean’s voice.  He has them hedged, everyone bent tired from the fight, and you stride up, push your shoulder up by Dean’s and lead him to turn with you and step back to back, between the vampires, to face one each.  Yours strikes at you and you catch his wrist, thunking the blade into his neck.  Blood coughs from around the metal, then sprays as you pull back to swing again and finish the job.  Within the next second, the last body falls from Dean’s work.

_“Where were you?!”_

You turn at the bellowing question and stumble back as Dean gets in your face, tripping your hips into the back of the couch.  “Where the _fuck_ were you? I called and called and neither of you answered!”

All his energy seems gathered at his brow, directed at you like a blow-torch. His whole system is ratcheted high and you let him go, tired from the fight and exertion.  

“Sam was knocked out,” you lied.  “I didn’t want to leave him.”

He’s so angry, had such a fright, that his breath almost pushes you back.  “You shoulda fucken _called_ ,” he snipes.  He’s upset, as though you’ve hurt his feelings, and you swallow as he backs off.  He moves away, looking at you like he’s pacing, aiming for his brother to check he’s okay. Sam appears, apparently having freed the victim, and is looking at you more intensely than what makes you comfortable.  Your first instinct is to hightail it outta there - leaving as soon as is practical is your first policy, usually - but there’s no way-

“I was cut,” Sam says quietly.

“Are you ok?” Dean says, grabbing his jacket near all the blood

“I wasn’t,” he says. “She… healed me.”

“What does that mean?” Dean stands between you, hands open, waiting for Sam to show him the injury. “Where’s the cut?”

“Here,” Sam traces the line on his neck.

“There’s nothin’ there.”

“I know! She took it away!”

“What?!”

“Seriously! I was gushing!”

“You weren’t _gushing_ ,” you mutter.

Dean swings around to glare at you, head almost sideways as he approaches, “Sorry, fucking _what?_  Are you saying he was cut and now he’s not?”

You say nothing, clench your jaw and try to see if Sam is on your side at all.  “It’s a skill-”

“A skill?  You better give me a goddamn clear answer Madonna.  What did you do to my brother?”  Dean stops a few yards before you, hands wide in gesture but turned back like he might snatch for his gun.  

Your chest drops in fear, that familiar dread that people won’t understand, even these people who deal with the weird so often.  You feel your own gun against your back, knowing you’ll never draw it on these two, and wonder if you’ve got enough strength left to repair all the layers of a bullet wound.  “I can control organic things.  Sometimes.”

“Give me more than that, Y/N,” Dean shakes his head.  He breathes out his nose, and the tilt in his eyes looks like he’s hoping you’ll say something persuasive.

“It’s biokinesis,” you try to take a deep breath, bring the room down a notch.  “It’s just something I can do.”

He takes 3 seconds to think.  “So you going to make me punch myself?” He’s only half joking.  You’d kinda like to try.

“No, that’s-” Sam walks up to Dean as you answer, but he seems more curious than anything.  “That needs a lot of different things to move in concert, it’s quite complicated.  Maybe, if I had some cocaine…”

Sam huffs a laugh, and Dean glances his way, clearly still not satisfied.  “What about up here?” He taps his head, “You gonna make me tell all my secrets, make me like lettuce?”

“No, that’s way too tricky, surely,” Sam says.  “I mean, we know what the different areas do but what neurons do what-”

You’re shaking your head already.  “Yeah, there’s no way.  I can control a patch of small things or a single muscle, create an action.  Sometimes I can do a few simple things at once.  I can’t move your bones but I can ask one of the muscles to start it off.”

Dean stares at you, slowly pulls his lips in and licks thoughtfully.  “…Or Jesus,” he sighs.

“Yeah, okay, settle down,” you tell him.

Soon he’s rocked his weight a little, stood tall and stepped back. "And you're okay?"

"I'm okay.  You?"

He doesn't answer, just keeps an eye on you, something tight and thoughtful, but Sam is all ease.  “It felt amazing,” he says.

“Really?” It’s been a long time since you’ve gotten any kind words about this.

“Yeah, like… a hot itch and electric.  It just… buzzed.  Felt good.”  He’s impressed, amazed, and Dean’s demeanour shifts into acceptance.

“All right,” he surrenders, “so you got a skill.  This why you won’t share your last name?”  He starts with the clearing, and you and Sam join in, wiping blades and heading for the back door.  

“Nope, that’s just anonymity.  I’ve been doing this 18 years.  Think I’ve said my full name about four times.”

Dean glances at you over his shoulder as you all walk through the kitchen, a flash of a smirk. “Well, I’ve never heard of a Y/N No Name. You sure you’re that good?”

Cheeky bastard has no chill with this game.  “Gee, I dunno. I average about 18 solo hunts a year, and I’m still on my first life, so-”

At the back steps they turn and look at you, both of them _I can’t believe you just_ in their own way.

“Too soon?” you ask.  “Yeah.  Probably always too soon.”  You head off, back up the hill toward the cars, leaving them to follow.

Their grumblings reach you as you traipse along.

“She’s a sassy little shit,” Sam mutters.  

“Tellin’ me,” Dean replies.  “She can biokinees my ass.”

You think of his hand, focus on the central tendon along its back, and tighten a muscle or two.

“Hey!” Dean looks at what you’re doing and squawks, “ _Don’t_ you goddamn give me my bird!!”

You can’t help but giggle, laughing aloud at Sam chuckling “Holy shit!”

* * *

Gee you were well behaved.  You turned down the post-hunt drink and when Dean mentioned their hotel you didn’t mention yours.  You’d said your goodbyes, nodded them off.  All under the black-hole strength of Dean’s tethered gaze and teasing smile.  You even went to the bar on the far side of town to them and a dozen other dives.

Yet here’s his aftershave, heralding whatever intro he probably has lined up.

The breath you take is that deep, Dean gets his drinks ordered and poured before you’re done.  He slides a whiskey over to you.

You don’t want to feel what your body’s going to do when you look at him.  After the hunt, you’ve got little left to help yourself through an onslaught of Dean-induced giddiness.  Then the bartender collects a bottle of tequila from a shelf, revealing Dean’s face squarely reflected in the backing mirror.

_Fucking crap on you tequila.  Traitor._

And he’s smiling.  Not one of those toothy _How you doin’ things_ but like he’s got his fingers crossed.  Just the corners.

“Thank you,” he says. _Of course._  “I forgot to say thank you, so,” he picks up his glass and tilts it for a cheers.

“You’re welcome,” you reply and let the tips of your fingers rest on the rim of your new drink.  You’re just gonna have to do this.  “Thank you for answering the call,” you nod, then pick up the glass and clink it to his before taking a sip.  You look at him, right there next to you.  The jawline and smile, the crinkles and those eyebrows that seem to be flirting with you on the side.  Your gaze mistakenly locks with his, draws tight, but when you snap your eyes away they only drop to his lips.

This time his heart gallops, right out of the gate, like you’ve waved some green flag and you really do try to rein it in, stare at his pulse point to get in there.

“That you doing that?” he asks, licking the next sip from his lips.  

You shift guiltily.

“Don’t do that,” he says softly.  “I like it when my heart jack rabbits.  It’s exciting.  Makes me brave.”

_Come on, you gotta be brave too?_

He’s turned toward you, one knee pointed your way, focussed on you, and you turn toward him a little, look at him a bit better, pretending it’s to be polite.

“Can I just say, too, that fight, when you ran into the living room,” he shakes his head and looks away in thought, “Damn inspiring.”  When he looks back, you wonder a little at what, exactly, you inspired.

He smiles broad, swallows in a kind of open hope, and now you can feel it loud and clear: he likes you. You can taste the chemical change on him, full of happy, warm, life-extending goodness.  It’s such a spectrum that you find it’s something you can’t contain.  You can’t even keep track of the full suite of endorphins, more than you’ve met before because of course this guy goes hard on everything.  Whatever it is you’re trying to dismantle with your mind, to trick him away from, it’s out of your hands.

“How about we talk about Garth?” you offer.  He laughs “Okay” and tells you about the first time they met.  It’s both the best and worst alternative.  He’s delighted to tell you these stories - they’re funny and sweet and nostalgic, easy conversation to share - and so you see his easiest side, and it’s gorgeous.  You turn is just as disastrous: you were sure Garth was a suspect and literally nailed his shirt to the wall of a bewitched construction site.  Describing Garth half a foot off the ground and gesticulating from the wrists had Dean in tears and you at your best.  His grip lands on your knee, he covers his mouth with the back of his hand, bounces in a silent laugh, you hold his wrist to deliver the punchline and he grabs your hand back.  It’s terribly perfect.

 _What the hell am I thinking?!_ You skip the fourth drink and order a glass of water, skull the whole thing and ask your liver to work a little harder in some last ditch effort to look after yourself.  

Dean sees what you’re doing but can’t think fast enough to stop you.

“I should go, I gotta be far away first thing,” you say, not actually lying.

“Y/N, you can stay, you don’t have to- hey, why-” he collects your forearm loosely, “Hey.  Why are you running away right now?”

You slide off your stool and into the patch between your seats, between the bar and his thigh.  He’s closer now, and your height, and your liver’s distracted too.  He smells like everything you want and you feel your strength sway under his gaze. He leans, shepherding you into his embrace.

Like a slow nod, you lean too, but at the last inch, when he’s all you can see, you gasp short and pull back.  It’s hard to retreat, like you’re bumping into your own spine, and it goes against your every instinct to not miss out on him. But you have to, you must.  “Amara will kill me.”

“What? No-” he twitches.  “No she won’t.”

“She will.  You know me, better than the others.  I’m in that world.  And she will-”

“No-”

“She _will_.”  You speak, noses four inches apart, voices feeling closer in the din.  “For the threat. Or control.  Spite, neatness, jealousy, boredom.  Any reason will be good enough.”

“No, Y/N, she’s-” he starts a short shake of the head. “It’s not like that-”

“It doesn’t matter,” you tell him.  “It’s something like that to her.  I know enough.”

She’s the Darkness, you’ve heard, a kind of God, and connected to Dean. What if she can read his mind? You can’t tell him how adolescent she seems and since when was a God not violent and jealous.  You’re a woman he knows, someone he’s fought with now, and even if you’re just a name on his phone… somehow she’d know.  

It’s strange how if there wasn’t this threat to your connection, you’d doubt it even existed, but you can feel it flourish.  There are threads between you and they have colour and quality and could well be woven into something warm.  Something Amara could use to hang you both.

Dean’s brow clears in comprehension.  You let his body do what it wants and hope he lets you go, or even drops you completely if it’ll keep him safe.  You can’t even say ‘look me up after’ because she might detect his hope, or desire, or even sense the wish that he wasn’t connected to her so he could be free to connect with you.  You hope that maybe he can read your face and try so hard to ask him to call you when it’s all done, if he likes, if he still thinks of you and you’re still there.

Your hand has landed low on his arm and you’re squeezing too hard. You ease off, step back and push your seat behind you, let your fingertips slide down and over his knuckles.  You lick your lips and try to breathe level, feel your own wash of sadness as you detect the cocktail of dismay flow through him.

It’s for the best and for once in your life that’s what you’ll do.  “Y/N L/N,” you say, and leave.

* * *

You wait for Amara to come and pluck you from the landscape and hold you over him, or just quietly do away with you, but it never happens.  You fight the micro bursts of activity around the central states and half listen to the gossip about the Winchesters saving the world again.

Then everything goes quiet.  Rumour is Sam and Dean survived, but stories of either brother are thin and you imagine if they did survive they’d take their time getting back in the field, even if everything went well.  You don’t dare call Dean, lest he doesn’t answer, or can’t answer.   _Not that they’d feel much different,_ you think.  But that’s not true.

Then a few more stories turn up, and suddenly you catch a word that they’re two towns away.  You have a few drinks and shrug yourself indifferent for however many seconds it takes to text him the name of your motel and room number.  You decide you may as well have started it “Dear Diary.”

He doesn’t come, not in the hours you expect him anyway.  You run your routine and sometime late in the afternoon you think that town’s pretty much on your way to the next hunt.  There’re about two motels there - how pathetic it would be to cruise past them both and look for the Impala?  Would it be less pathetic if no one else knew?

Fuck it.  You’re only expecting to live once.

Bag in hand, you open the door to see Dean right there.  He’s a step away from the doormat, hadn’t even raised his fist yet, and you stop short on the threshold.  

He looks well.  Relieved and rested, like he’s seen weekends.  

Nothing about him moves but the corners of his mouth.  He knows you can hear his heart skip into a steady jog, thippity-thumping for you, breath tripping happy as you look at his chest and listen to it.  You smile and step out, place your hand over his greatest muscle and don’t do a thing to change him or the way he works.

“How do you do that?” you ask.

“Do what?” he smiles and puts his hand over yours.

“Make my heart go so fast.”


End file.
